Blood and Tears
by InTheVast
Summary: Sometimes the cycle just becomes too much. SLASH


Title: Blood and Tears  
  
Part: 1/1  
  
Pairing: Ron/Draco  
  
Rating: Hard R (lots of violent sex, blood, and f words)  
  
Author: Emileigh (blackrosesfalling@yahoo.com)  
  
Fandom: HP  
  
Disclaimer: No ownership whatsoever. just some basic kid-napping.  
  
Author's Notes: This is for all my friends, Bri-chan, Messlyn, and Meixia *pokes*, plus all the others who encourage my perverted, incoherent, perverted, over-writing (did I mention perverted?) mind. (That goes for my peeps over at Prince and Pauper too!)  
  
Summary: Sometimes the cycle just becomes too much.  
  
***************  
  
I pushed Draco up against the wall. "Stop doing this to me. Huh? Do you fucking hear me?" Without even realizing it, my hands were wrapping around his shoulders, and shaking him. I had to fight the urge to wrap my fingers around his throat, and squeeze out his pulse. "Do you like this? Me wanting to fucking kill you?" I was startled to find that I couldn't recognize my voice anymore, there was too much rage in it.  
  
He laughed at me. He was always laughing at me, always ruining my control.  
  
I backhanded him hard. He crumpled to the ground, holding the side of his face. He looked up at me, an angelic smile covering his features.  
  
I was talking to him now, speaking so quickly I couldn't even think about the words as I said them. "I look at myself in the mirror, and I don't know myself anymore. I don't recognize who I am anymore. You're making me become someone I don't want to be. But I can't stop myself from wanting it, wanting you." I had to stop to breathe, because each word was a near verbal suffocation, but each breath was already blissful fucking agony.  
  
He smirked up at me from the ground, not even listening, and I wasn't even feeling real at this point. It was like I was made of air, and my molecules seemed to be floating on some different spiral. in another world where none of this was happening, Hermione and Harry still trusted me, and I didn't have to feel so afraid of myself anymore.  
  
But that wasn't meant to be. Instead I was suddenly on top of him, and my hands were smashing his saintly face into the shiny linoleum floor. Anything to stop his laughter, and his wide, gray eyes from looking at me.  
  
Suddenly there was blood everywhere, my hands slipped in it, touching his face in a bloody mutiny of a caress. He gasped for air beneath me, and his mouth was molten red with hot blood, spreading everywhere. His laughter was hurting my ears.  
  
What's more the shiny puddle of blood, like swift spreading larva on the filthy floor, was turning me on. My mouth was already throbbing dryly with the ache to lap it, to bury my face in his blood and drown myself. Drown in the same murky, infected Malfoy blood that had brought us willingly to this moment. It seemed I hadn't lost my touch for irony at all.  
  
My whole body was aching, almost constantly, with the urge to take him. Bruise his precious, luscious mouth and leave my mark. Long spidery scratch marks on his fragile breakable hips. Force him face down against this cold linoleum floor and use him so hard his chest and stomach and thighs ended up nothing but a bloody spoiled pulp. Press my naked flesh hard against his, make him wallow in his blood and pain and fear. I loved it, loved the disoriented way he looked up at me when I took him.  
  
Just thinking about it made me hard. I was sobbing as I hit him. I had finally completely lost my fucking mind.  
  
Desperate, I was about to smack him again, but he grasped my hand, very gently, and rested it between his spread legs. He was hard too. His bloody smile was reassuring, his breathless laughter taunting. He was undoing my trousers and undergarments, pulling them down to my knees. Only he would encourage a cold, empty consummation in a cold, empty Hogwarts hallway.  
  
So I hit him again and again until his face was lit an angry red, like an over rouged, battered whore. And the more I hit him the more he cried and laughed his exhausted, hysterical laugh. My other hand was on my cock, driving myself on until I came right onto the emotionless, bruised face that I loved with all my rotten, inept heart.  
  
Afterwards, I collapsed, weak and boneless. I was wiping my tears away, when in a clumsy jerk, his skinny arms hooked around my neck, and his lips melded into mine.  
  
I was shocked. Too shocked to move away, or to react. I wrapped my unsteady arms around his shoulders and drew him closer, his panting mouth hovering over my lips. His breath smelt of blood, nicotine, and insomnia.  
  
"Why?" I moaned dejectedly. "Why now?"  
  
Our self-effacing bodies. They had no pride, no self-worth, no memory. They tasted almost like reason.  
  
He hurt me and I hurt him back. I knew how he felt sorry for me. He was sorry for me because I loved him. I was sorry for myself because I couldn't make myself give him up. And at the same time, I pitied him as I had never pitied anyone before.  
  
I embraced his stiff shoulders, like I couldn't embrace his cold heart, and cried the tears he would never cry. I cried until I could no longer remember what I was crying for. His blood and my tears mixed into something, created something poisonous, something called love.  
  
Like the lover I wasn't, I laid down by his side as he finally lost consciousness, my trousers still around my ankles soaking in his blood, oozing unstopppered across the floor. We gazed at each other, both in shock, while I traced patterns in my semen, splattered across his serene face as the icy blue light that filtered through the hall slowly turned iridescent and then the deepest midnight black.  
  
"I love you Draco," I whispered. Then without control I was telling him that I loved him over and over again, until my throat got raw, until the words lost all meaning and vibrated like a discordant, frantic prey in my ears. And soon I had to stop to catch my breath, and then hold it as I waited for his reaction.  
  
"Then forgive me," he said and his head sunk onto his chest.  
  
He had passed out from the blood loss.  
  
The lingering taste of his blood in my mouth, it didn't go away. Neither did the rattling pain in my heart. But something felt right about holding Draco Malfoy to my chest, and watching over his sleep with my bewildered, fervent eyes.  
  
Maybe it was because by then I had learned something. That even the deepest, darkest hatred was subject to some sort of healing. Maybe all we needed was time. Time to heal, time to stop our blood and wipe our tears. Yes, everything would one day heal.  
  
Thank God. 


End file.
